


The Isle of the Cartographer

by eag



Series: Voyage of the Muntjac [3]
Category: The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Bingle is in denial, Cartography, Eliot plays nurse, Eliot really misses Quentin, Fillory, Gen, Guilt, High King and Greatest Swordsman in all of Fillory with benefits, Lies, M/M, Magic, Mentor/Protégé, Mystery, Quests, Secrets, Trust, Unrequited Love, Voyage of the Muntjac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I didn’t know how to give it back.  I thought maybe I’d pretend to find it.  I’m sorry.  I wanted to be a hero."  Benedict, <i>The Magician King</i></p><p>Benedict wants to be a hero,  Bingle struggles with his past, and Eliot tries to save the day.</p><p>Part of a series, but can be read by itself without missing very much, if so inclined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The _Muntjac_ sailed on a brisk wind, southward from the Doldrums. Benedict sat in the crow's nest with a small sketchbook, tapping the blank page with his pencil, hoping to be the first one to sight land. The usual lookout, Mato (who also doubled as the ship's barber, and on alternating Thursdays served at dinner) was on his meal break. Sometimes instead of swapping out with another sailor, he let Benedict climb the main mast and sit in the tough cane basket.

Benedict shifted a little, leaning forward. The wind whipped through his short, spiky hair, and he could feel the sway of the mast and the sway of the ship move through his body. Months ago, he couldn't have imagined doing anything like this; when he first came aboard the _Muntjac_ he had such terrible seasickness that he spent most of his time in his room, half-dead from nausea. He managed to stave it off a little bit when he started training with Bingle. Somewhere along the way, after all the talk and practice about leverage and momentum and balance and so forth, Benedict finally stopped getting seasick.

After almost a year at sea, he considered himself a pro, at least in terms of not getting sick. The crow's nest was the most likely place to get sick; any motion was amplified because of the motion of the tall mast. He used to come up once in a while to test himself, but now he did it because he liked the view. And also because for once, he wanted to be the one to sight land first.

The ocean sparkled before them; it was a clear, sunny day, but for a thin line of fog at the edge of the horizon. Benedict squinted, wondering if he could see land. He thought he saw something, and he began to trace the outline on his notebook, freehand, without looking down. It looked like the curve of a coastline, and as the ship drew slightly nearer, Benedict was sure he could see the outline of an island.

He reached up, untied the bell clapper, and rang it loudly, smiling as the men clattered onto deck to see them. Quickly, Benedict retied the clapper and clambered down, an easy climb now after so many months of training had packed muscle onto his body.

Mato came clattering out of the mess hall below deck, a bit of cheese tucked into a hunk of bread held between his teeth as he climbed up to the crow's nest to verify. Benedict looked up, shading his eyes; the sun shone brightly down. 

“Land!” Mato's deep voice confirmed the sighting, carrying over the gusting wind and the flapping edges of the sails, and everyone cheered.

It took a few hours to actually get to the island. After navigational discussions with Admiral Lacker, Benedict went to the bow to make some more preliminary drawings in his notebook before tucking it into his waterproof leather cartography case, strapping it around his waist. He tapped the case thoughtfully with his right hand, wondering what corrections he'd have to make.

“Benedict.” Bingle came bounding up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Bingle's dark hair was tousled and he looked half breathless, though Benedict didn't think it had anything to do with coming up the stairs. Benedict smiled, realizing that Bingle had probably just come from Eliot's bed. He thought about the time; it made sense, since Eliot was taken to resting in his cabin after lunch. The knowledge of what Eliot and Bingle did used to make him kind of upset in a way that he couldn't really understand, but now it was just kind of funny. It didn't really bother him much anymore. Bingle had what he had with Eliot, and Bingle had something else entirely with Benedict.

“I heard you were the one who sighted land. You finally did it.” 

“Yeah.” Benedict grinned, happy. “We'll be there soon.” 

“Well done.” Bingle clapped him on the shoulder. “I'm proud of you.”

Benedict beamed, and the two went to prepare to go ashore.

*****

The launch ground to a halt in the sand, a few feet from shore. The three of them, Eliot, Bingle, and Benedict, plus a handful of sailors bounded out, splashing in the surf, even Eliot whose tough waterproofed boots kept his feet dry. Fog rippled around the island; was that a mountain? Benedict pulled out his notebook and added the contour of a mountainside, following what it appeared to be in the gray haze.

“Thank goodness.” Eliot strode forward, heedless of the seawater splashing his trousers, glad to be on land. “The three of us will scout around before sending all the men out this time.” He gave orders to the sailors to set up a base camp, to prepare for the others.

“How come?” Benedict looked around. The island seemed totally innocuous. 

“Call it a hunch,” Eliot shrugged. “I have excellent instincts for these things. Also, I cast a reveal earlier that suggested something strange on this island. Possibly dangerous.”

“Then it's not a hunch,” Benedict quipped.

“Right you are, Benedict. Now, let's get going.”

Bingle led the way, sword drawn. It glowed, a line of faint silver in the strange gray mist. Benedict added little features as they walked, the line of a river, the curve of a mountainside. Soon they were hiking up the side of a wide plateau. Finally, the river that Benedict thought he had seen emerged, spilling down the curves of the mountain, cutting into the plateau with deceptively calm but swift-moving water. He walked toward the edge, and saw that the river flowed over it into a waterfall. It was a sheer cliff on the other side, and by Benedict's calculation, approximately 33 to 35 yards to the pool below it, give or take half a yard.

Eliot looked around critically; very little escaped his perceptive eye. “Boys, as much as I think this would be a lovely place for a picnic, something...is not quite right in the state of mysterious foggy island.” He pointed; there were no trees along the river bank, only charred and shattered stumps. Further up along the river, there were a few trees, but they were very small, less than a few years old. Everything else was burnt stumps.

“I agree.” Bingle stood at Eliot's side, and Benedict wished he had his practice sword. Then at least he could do something. 

“Forest fires?” Benedict suggested, and then Eliot shook his head. 

“I thought that too, but if you look closely, there are areas that were burnt to ash sooner than other areas...it's like a directed wave of fire hit those trees. Just look at the ratio of the white parts to the black parts.”

“Strange,” Bingle agreed.

Benedict frowned; he hated being wrong. It was embarrassing, and he tried to play it off by heading toward the waterfall as if he hadn't noticed the correction, wondering if he could see down far enough to see where it went. They could play detectives just fine without him. He sketched what he could see of the other side of the waterfall, and then absently tucked everything away back into his waterproof case.

The falls roared loudly. Was it just him or was the roaring getting louder?

Suddenly, behind him there was some kind of commotion. He turned just in time to see Eliot cast a spell that bubbled a protective sphere around him. A second later, a gout of fire that was meant to engulf Eliot merely lapped harmlessly around the bubble. Beyond, trees and old stumps caught fire almost instantly, even the tiny green ones.

Bingle shouted and stamped, sword flashing before him; the sound of a challenge, and immediately Benedict could see the source of the fire as it came over a hump in the river. It was a large salamander, larger even than a man, and it was heading right at Bingle.

“Bingle!” Benedict couldn't help it, he shouted before he could even think straight, and the cracked, high sound of his voice drew the monster's attention away from Bingle. It began to rush at him, boulders flying in its wake, water splashing around so violently that it fell in a rain around them.

Benedict froze; all he could see were the beast's tiny incongruously cute eyes, and the mottled stone-like flesh that must have camouflaged it in the river bed, and then fire was coming at him, in a huge flaming gout.

He was going to die.

But at the very last second, just as he felt the lick of flames against his skin and the stink of his own burning hair, he saw a flash of crimson and felt the impact of another body. Bingle. Bingle was pushing him out of the way. He wasn't going to die. And then as they stuck the landing, just at the edge of the river, it happened. It reminded him of something that he overheard Bingle and Eliot discussing once, that sometimes things just didn't work out, no matter how carefully calculated. The crumbly edge of the ridge where they landed collapsed beneath their feet. Though Bingle tried, it was too late for corrections.

They went over the edge.

Benedict would later remember the few scrambling seconds of sheer panic in little flashes of memory. Bingle's eyes narrowed with focus. Bingle's muscles contracting against him as he spun them around midair. The magic sword tucked along the length of Bingle's inner arm with an eerie, ghostly glow. The fist of Bingle's hand as he led with his sword arm, his other arm gripping Benedict around the waist with an iron grip, their bodies pressed together tight..

The moment of impact was unforgiving, shocking and it knocked the breath right out of him. The water was freezing cold. But Bingle had timed it, had somehow shifted them just so that as they hit the pool at the base of the falls, they were shoved down deep into darkness by the heavy fall of water, and then, as they tumbled through the dark water, just when Benedict really thought they were going to die and the need for oxygen became almost too great to bear, the swirling turbulence popped them right back up out of the water at an angle, close to shore.

It seemed that this too was something Bingle had done before. 

Benedict gasped for air, his eyes watering, but from what, he didn't understand. Fear, relief, the panic of almost dying...it all didn't seem to matter. Bingle hadn't let him go. They were going to live.

*****

“Oh. Oh no. No!” Eliot caught a glimpse of Bingle and Benedict going over the edge of the waterfall, and something in him snapped. 

Of late, he had he fought his battles with a certain amount style, knowing he could always win with some combination of either out-smarting or out-magicking his opponent or both. Problems were attacked with an eye for elegance, with clever ruses and feints that led the target into a trap that snapped down before it realized it was there. But this, this made him rethink his strategies. He was going to destroy this nasty little monster, and he was going to do it fast.

Eliot dropped the protective ward around himself. The salamander, feeling the shift in power, turned back toward him, its fat, thick tail swirling the waters of the river, causing tidal waves of water to lap up against the bank, drowning some of the flaming stumps and trees that sizzled in the wash.

“Fuck you,” Eliot said succinctly, and just as the salamander was about to attack again, he wove a protective ward around the salamander, trapping it inside with its own flames. The fire licked around it as it attacked, everything contained in a protective bubble that reflected the flames on the inside. It tried again, as though it didn't realize that it was trapped, and again and again. The force of it was great; he could tell just from looking that the temperature was getting unbearable; where the bubble sat in the water at the edge of the river, the negligible amounts of energy that leaked from the ward was causing the river to steam.

But no matter how much it tried, the salamander didn't have anything on Eliot. After all, wards, shields, protective spells...those were his Discipline.

He watched as the salamander's slick skin grew redder and redder, until it glowed nearly white-hot. It kept up its attacks, as if it was waiting for Eliot to fuck up just one tiny bit so it could get out and burn him up too.

“Jesus. Just die already,” Eliot snarled, but the salamander kept gouting fire and heating itself up more. Unsurprisingly, it was immune to its own attacks.

“Okay. Fine.” Eliot held out his hands, glaring at the ward. He cupped his hands before him, as if holding an invisible sphere. It was going to have to be done the messy way.

Chanting loudly, in a corrupted Coptic that had been run through the distorting lenses of Arabic and old Castilian, he started bringing his hands together. The salamander began to thrash as the bubble started closing down on it.

Eliot's pale eyes grew cold as he continued his spell, inexorable, crushing the salamander until his two palms were pressed together, until it was nothing but a wet, quivering mass of white-hot flesh. Then he slowly opened his hands again, letting the bubble re-expand. As he did so, he layered on dissipation spells that allowed the heat and excess energy to seep away safely so it wouldn't explode everything around itself for a quarter-mile in diameter with all the accumulated energy trapped inside.

Eventually, what was left was a wet, soppy mess of barely warm flesh and a spreading pool of blood that bloomed into the river. Eliot didn't mean to go over for a closer look, but something caught his eye. He strode forward, making a face.

In the shattered skull of the salamander, among gooey chunks of gelatinous brain matter...was a golden key.

Eliot picked it up fastidiously and washed it off in the river. He drew the magical keyring out from his waistcoat pocket; the dripping key clinked onto it unceremoniously.

“Five.” He sighed, putting the keyring back, and went to look down over the edge of the waterfall. There was no sign of Benedict or Bingle, only rising mist from the falls, mist that melded with the fog to blur out the land below, as if there was no land there at all but a vast emptiness. For a moment, Eliot wondered if they had paid too high of a price for the fifth key, and then he shook his head. If Bingle was involved, they probably survived; he had personally seen the man do things he thought were basically impossible. As much as he wanted to fly down off that cliff to find them, he had to go and get the men ready. He had responsibilities. He couldn't leave the others without a word.

Eliot was going to do his damnedest to get the two back. They weren't leaving this godforsaken island without the two, dead or alive. They were going to go find Benedict and Bingle. 

Grimly, Eliot retraced his steps back down toward the beach.

*****

They swam for a short way before dragging each other out of the deep pool. They slogged out of the water, barely able to move, completely soaked through. It was almost a close thing; at the very end, Benedict had to drag the exhausted Bingle out, the swordsman's wet cloak weighing him down.

They fell onto the pebbly beach, panting.

“Benedict?”

“I'm okay.”

“Good. I am as well.”

They stayed there like that for what felt like a long time, half-dazed, catching their breaths.

Eventually, Bingle sat up. 

“Fire. Undress.” Bingle ordered, and as he did so he unfastened his cloak, wriggling out of his wet, clinging clothes and his sopped boots. Benedict did the same, struggling. Naked, Bingle stepped lightly out of his shed garments and went past the edge of the forest. He came back a few minutes later with an armload of fuel as Benedict was wringing out his underwear. It was chilly, but not truly cold, at least not yet. There was still some light in the sky, though much of it was blocked out by the trees and the fog.

Bingle set about building a fire; whatever he did to get it going, it was quick and efficient. They had a little fire soon enough, and Bingle fed it bits of grasses and dead leaves until it was going well enough for him to drop a few irregular hunks of driftwood onto it.

They warmed up quickly after that. Bingle came over.

“I need to check you for broken bones,” Bingle said, as he frowned at some of the scrapes and bruises that Benedict had picked up. “If you broke anything, you won't feel it for hours, not after all that excitement.” He did that quickly, clinically, firm hands running over Benedict's body, fingers prodding carefully. Benedict was too tired to even be embarrassed when Bingle's hands ran down the horns of his pelvis and over his thighs, just barely skirting by his genitals. Bingle even checked his fingers and toes.

Bingle sighed, relieved. “Good.” Then he turned Benedict's face toward him, and frowned.

“What's wrong?” Benedict touched his right temple and winced. His skin stung, and he couldn't remember why.

“You were burned by the salamander. Thankfully it's not much worse than a bad sunburn. But it took off some of your hair.”

“Jesus Christ.” Benedict muttered. “It had better grow back.” But then he stopped scowling, because that was hurting his face and the side of his head. “How much of it is gone?”

“A lot.” Bingle's fingers lightly touched a bare patch of Benedict's scalp along the side of his head, and it made Benedict shiver. “It's all right. Mato can shave off the rest to match when we're back aboard. I'm certain it will grow back.”

“Right. It's just hair.” Benedict sighed. If that was all he lost today, that was not a really big deal. Somehow he thought that if this had happened months ago, maybe he couldn't have dealt with it, at least not so well. He could imagine a younger, dumber version of him panicking over everything that had happened so far today. It gave him a sense of pride to realize that all this work with Bingle and questing with Eliot had given him some inner strength that he hadn't known he had before. 

He wished that he could check to see what he looked like now in the reflection of Bingle's sword, like they had done a long time ago when he first got a haircut. But Bingle's new sword didn't reflect anything but its own mysterious inner glow.

Bingle checked himself for broken bones after that, and looked if not pleased, at least not upset with what he found.

“Nothing broken, right?” Benedict asked, worried.

“We got lucky,” Bingle said simply, and then they set to work wringing out their sopping clothes and dumping out their waterlogged boots before wedging them on sticks to dry. The clothes steamed in the heat of the fire. 

“We'll stay here. Eliot will come for us. He'll be able to see the smoke from the fire.” Bingle looked up at the cliff. They hadn't seen any more gouts of fire from the top of the cliff. Either the salamander had left, or Eliot had finished it off.

“Yeah. He probably killed that thing already. Like that time with the giant lobster.” Benedict never thought of Eliot as much of a fighter, but it seemed like he always managed to do something clever and impressive that saved them.

“Yes.” Bingle was silent, shivering a little. He took a few long breaths and stopped shivering, staring at the fire thoughtfully. Benedict did the same, letting his lungs flood with air and imagining the air powering bellows to heat up the inner furnace of his body. It worked pretty well, most of the time. Another Bingle technique. This time it took a minute or two, but it worked.

Now that he wasn't sopping wet and shivering, Benedict decided to give his case a try. He opened it and pulled out his sketchbook. The case had been cracked as they were getting out of the water; he vaguely remembered banging it against a boulder as they stumbled out onto the beach. He had the matching bruise on his hip from the impact. The case had about an inch of water in it. That made him a little angry, angrier than he should have been, and he resisted the urge to throw things, only laying things out carefully by the fire where they would dry evenly. At least he had done most of his sketches in pencil; ink would have run. He flipped to his preliminary map; ink had bled through from another page, obscuring some of the work he did this morning.

“Don't worry about where we are,” Bingle said, and Benedict jumped a little; he had been so focused on his sketchbook that he had forgotten Bingle was there. “It doesn't matter much where we are, just as long as we're alive. We'll be found soon.”

“Right.” Benedict nodded, only sort of half-paying attention. Poor little maps; he had worked so hard on them. The ink-smeared one was the prototype for the floating castle. He sighed, setting it down on a flat rock to dry.

A few hours later and a few logs later, it was coming on night. Their clothes were dry enough to wear so they dressed as it grew progressively colder. Benedict helped Bingle pile a few armloads of fresh pine boughs near the fire. They made a bed of it and sat on it to keep off the cold of the pebbly beach, sharing Bingle's cloak and the heat of the fire.

Benedict fell asleep first, and as he was drifting off, he could feel Bingle drawing him close, against his shoulder, before lying down with him on the fragrant, softly prickly needles, tucking the cloak around themselves tight. Bingle's breath was warm against his neck and Benedict felt a sudden wave of strong emotion go through him, but he was so tired that he couldn't really think straight. He just felt safe and warm. 

*****

By the time Eliot made it back to the beach, he set off a showy firework of a spell that signaled to the men that it was safe to come ashore. Shouts of excitement could be heard; they hadn't been on land in what felt like ages. 

Once he was back, he waved off questions from the waiting sailors about Bingle and Benedict, and sat down to catch his breath, drink some water, and formulate a plan. By the time the rest of the crew had disembarked the _Muntjac_ , he was ready. 

“We're not reprovisioning. Not yet at least. We're going to do a search. Bingle and Benedict are missing, and I want them found.”

“What happened?” Admiral Lacker looked puzzled.

“We were ambushed, and...” Eliot scowled, “They went over the edge of a waterfall. I don't know if they're all right, but I assume they are. So we're going to find them.”

Murmurs of shock and dismay went through the crew. Admiral Lacker looked even more gray than usual. The two were well-liked and well-respected. Mato in particular looked distraught; he and Benedict had become good friends over the course of the journey.

“In the process a key was found.” Eliot briefly held up the magic keyring to reveal the fifth key. “But right now that's not as important as finding the two. We'll split up into two teams. Admiral Lacker, you'll take the launch and go around toward the western side of the island to see if you can find them.” Eliot swept his foot across the bare surface of the sand to smooth it and knelt down, sketching with the tip of his finger, giving the man an idea of what they were looking for. “Bingle and Benedict should be along the banks of a river that cuts through the ridge laterally from east to west, roughly perpendicular to the mountain range. If you follow along the ridge from the coast, I think you'll find the river at the base of the waterfall, which should lead you to the two missing men. I'll take a second team back to where we were and see if we can't figure a way down. Bring water and provisions for a few days. Signal when you've found them in the usual way.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” An ill-timed chorus of voices. Eliot nodded in approval.

“Any questions? No? Then let's get to work.”

From where he stood on the beach, Eliot could see the faint hint of the mountainside where he had been. He waited a few minutes as provisions were reorganized and distributed; they would supplement it by hunting and of course, there was at least plenty of fresh water...

Once the men were done, he gathered his team of four and they began hiking back up the mountainside.

Only, once they got to the top of the plateau...there was nothing on the other side, just dark spreading sea.

“Wait. What the fuck?!” Eliot blinked. This was the exact place that he had seen. The river was there. The remains of the salamander lay on the side of the river. The waterfall...and on the other side, ocean? Waves slammed the base of the cliff. It was as if the island had been sliced off at the plateau, and whatever he had seen earlier this afternoon was no longer there.

“No. No, this isn't right.” He peered down over the edge; he had seen forest before. He remembered a particularly tall tree by the side of the river; it stood out in his memory like a landmark, and the forest populated itself around it. He knew what he had seen, and this was not it.

“Your Majesty, do you think they're really down there?” Couble, the first mate who was also the sailmaker and sometime tailor, looked down over the edge. Eliot could tell from his tone of voice that he didn't think that anyone could have survived so long in the icy ocean water.

“No. Something's wrong. This isn't what I saw. There was a forest down there earlier.” Eliot scanned the base of the cliff.

The men looked at each other, oddly knowing looks. Couble, logical and dependable, stepped forward and cleared his throat:

“Your Majesty, perhaps you should rest.” 

“Don't patronize me. I'm not distraught. I know what I saw. Bingle and Benedict are down there. It was a forest just an hour or two ago-”

The sailors looked at each other, uncomfortable.

“Tell you what, Your Majesty. It's getting too dark to continue. Why don't we set up camp here and start again in the morning?” Couble suggested reasonably. “We'll be fresher in the morning, and maybe by then Admiral Lacker and the others might have rowed over to find them. They're probably hunkered down on a rock down there.”

Dumbstruck, Eliot sat down, trying to wrap his mind around the problem. “Yes, yes. That's fine..” He waved the men off.

They set up camp. Eliot, who hated sleeping out and hated camping with all his body and breath, acquiesced quietly without a murmur. He didn't have time to fight his situation; he was putting all his efforts into solving this problem, sketching out his ideas on the back of a folded piece of paper he found in one of his pockets and a coarse, fat pencil borrowed from one of the sailors.

Eventually, he gave up for the night, but not before having done some good preliminary work. He'd sleep on it and the answer would come to him while his sleeping brain compiled. 

In the meantime, he bedded down like the others around a campfire, the swept ground hard on his back but thankfully not rocky or uneven.

There were no stars; the fog covered everything.

The emotional impact of the day finally caught up with him, and all he could feel was this strange disbelief. What if the two really were gone? Dead, cold. Lifeless... He shivered and closed his eyes, deciding that he couldn't afford to think this way. He wouldn't believe it, not when he had work to do, and not unless he saw their bodies for himself.

Instead, Eliot went to sleep thinking about how at the northern and southern edges of the Western Sea, the magic of Fillory seemed to run wild.


	2. Chapter 2

The rocking of the ship was soothing, and Bingle drowsed in his bunk, sore and stinging from the day's battle. He had cut it too close in the fight for the key with the giant lobster and had been gashed across his upper chest. The cut dug into the flesh just below his left collarbone, following the bottom lip of the bone until it sliced up across his collarbone and over his shoulder. Most of it was just a harmless scratch; he had dodged just in time to get a glancing blow, but a glancing blow from a monster that weighed a few tons was still fairly serious deal. But he was fortunate; quick reflexes and backup from Eliot had saved him from real harm.

There was a little tap at the door, and a familiar voice called out, sarcastically, “Room service.”

Bingle smiled to himself. It was Eliot. He wondered what time it was and figured that it had to be late. After getting sewn up, Bingle had been ordered to bed. Benedict had brought him dinner and taken away the empty dishes, but that was a few hours ago.

Eliot came in, an indistinct but unmistakeable figure in the darkness. He clicked his fingertips together and said a few strange words until a gentle light filled Bingle's tiny room. Now that he could see Eliot, he noticed Eliot was wearing just a pure white shirt and well-tailored breeches. He had even changed to heeled leather shoes instead of his usual tall boots; they showed off his white stockinged calves beautifully. Bingle felt a rush of arousal that left him light-headed; he had never seen Eliot dressed so casually.

“I hear we have a very important patient today.” He winked at Bingle as he brought in a small bucket of clean water and some towels. “Of course, here on the good ship _Muntjac_ 's hospital, we provide only the best in full-service nursing.”

Bingle felt himself smiling despite himself, as Eliot stirred the water with the outstretched fingers of his left hand, clockwise, counterclockwise, counter-counterclockwise, and then zigzaggedly while saying something that took one long breath to say all at once. The water warmed up, steaming slightly.

“Now...to undress the patient...” Eliot helped Bingle up to standing and out of his clothes, careful not to pull on the wound or muss the bandages. He reached into the bucket and found a sponge. Squeezing it out, he dabbed Bingle delicately with it, washing off some of the dried blood around the bandages, patting him dry him with a towel.

Bingle sighed, pleased to be free from the filth of the day. They had washed him off haphazardly after the fight, getting most of the blood off, but this was something else entirely. Languid, pleasurable, warm, a little playful...it was almost everything he liked about Eliot, wrapped up into one act. Eliot washed his hands, his limbs, his feet...he even managed to wash Bingle's hair, as well as he could.

“Now...the other side.” Eliot moved behind Bingle, and washed his back. Despite the sting of water on his scratched shoulder, Bingle moaned as Eliot dabbed and dried.

“Oh, Eliot...”

“Oh, Bing. That's not even the best part.” Eliot dipped his sponge and squeezed it, running it over Bingle's buttocks.

“Mmm.”

“Still not the best part,” Eliot teased. He moved closer, pressing himself against Bingle's damp back, an arm around Bingle's waist, and then a moment later, his hand, with the wet sponge, rubbed in between Bingle's legs, stroking him hard.

“Eliot...” Bingle gasped, hips arching in Eliot's grip.

“Now, now. The patient should endeavor to be...well, patient. This is a delicate operation. One needs to be thorough, as the patient should understand.” Eliot murmured into Bingle's ear, nipping at his earlobe as he worked the sponge over Bingle's cock and balls. Eventually, he gave up and dropped the sponge; it hit the ground with an undignified splat. Bingle could feel the hard press of Eliot's erection against his lower back, and he moaned, rubbing back against Eliot.

“Tell me,” Eliot whispered into Bingle's ear, “What do you think would be the best healing a patient like yourself could receive? I'm thinking something not too strenuous, but still...something to celebrate a job well done. After all, we won the fight, we have another key, and everyone left with all their fingers and toes and most of their blood still inside of them.”

“Why don't you fuck me?”

“Mmm. Tempting, Bing. Very tempting.” Eliot rubbed his erection against Bingle, kissing his neck. “But no, nothing strenuous for a few days. Doctor's orders. We wouldn't want to pull out those stitches.” Eliot turned Bingle around, drawing him close. They kissed; Bingle liked the feel of Eliot's mouth, that slightly off-kilter jaw, the jagged teeth that his exploring tongue would sometimes run into. 

“Here. I have an idea.” Eliot sat Bingle down on the bed, guiding him gently. He knelt down before the bed, and Bingle smiled as Eliot drew him into his mouth, taking him in deep.

“Mmm...” Bingle ran his hands through Eliot's hair, pulling it a little, the way Eliot liked. Eliot's mouth worked him expertly, cunningly, and Bingle was quickly brought to the edge.

“Wait...wait...” Bingle pushed Eliot away gently, panting, trying to regain his equilibrium. “What about you?”

“What about me? I can wait.” And then Eliot took him in again. The feel of the hot, slick press of Eliot's mouth and tongue against Bingle's cock, and...

Bingle half-woke in the gray pre-dawn light, cock hard, pressed against a warm body. He kissed the bare stretch of neck before him lightly. “Eliot...”

Someone murmured in their sleep, and suddenly Bingle realized where he was, who he was with, and that they were not Eliot.

Bingle let out a deep breath, willing his body calm as the dream faded. Benedict was deeply asleep, the boy's mouth slightly lax. His lips trembled faintly; he must be dreaming. Bingle's sword arm was around the boy's waist, and he could feel the slow movement of his breathing, and the heat of his body.

Yesterday had been too close; he had almost lost the boy, and something about that moment when he ran for Benedict, hoping he would not be too late...that fear had released an inner firestorm of old memories, of lost friends and lovers, of death. Things he hadn't thought about for a long time, until he was stripped bare, shivering, staring at the glowing embers of the fire before him.

He had done this before. He couldn't help it, it was something that just happened. As happy as he had been on this journey, it was only brief respite from what he was and what he could not escape. Yesterday was a reminder that fate dogged at his heels and with it, death and destruction. He should draw away before it was too late.

But he couldn't. There was nowhere he could go, and he could not leave without breaking promises, without harming the people he cared for, even if there was a place to leave to.

And Benedict was still alive. Perhaps this time he had been given another chance.

An intense feeling came over Bingle, a feeling of protectiveness and something else, something he couldn't quite place. It was a feeling he hadn't had in a long time, like a sweet, familiar fragrance in the air that could not quite be identified, though it jarred memories from the past. He felt like he could stay like this forever, holding the boy.

The spell didn't last. Benedict's brow furrowed as the light grew, and his breathing shifted as he woke, stretching. The cloak shifted, letting in a rush of cold air, and Benedict made a sound of displeasure. Bingle gently pinned Benedict's leg down with his own, and it stopped the cold air from coming in.

“Sleep well? Bingle stayed where he was, refraining from stroking what was left of the boy's black hair.

“Mmm. I had a dream...” Benedict yawned, unselfconscious of the fact that they were still pressed together. “It was a really good dream. We all lived at Whitespire together. Everyone: you and me and King Eliot and King Quentin...even the queens were there. There was a big party in the map room. Then there were pens, pencils, and paper and everyone drew. You drew a map of the Wandering Desert and it was perfect. Just perfect. Even down to those little desert tribesmen you told me about.”

“You know I can't draw,” Bingle said softly, teasing Benedict.

“Then we were fencing, and everything was going perfectly. But then somehow I lost my footing and fell-” Benedict's mouth closed. “It doesn't matter what happened. It was just a stupid dream. I woke up after that.”

Bingle could feel fear, that anxiety welling up inside him again. Unthinkingly, he tightened his grip on Benedict.

“Ow, Bingle...you're hurting me.” 

“Sorry.” Bingle let him go all at once, but he didn't move. “We ought to get up. Try to find something to eat.” They hadn't managed to find anything the night before; foraging was neither of their specialties and besides, something about almost dying had left them lacking in appetite.

“Yeah.” But Benedict didn't move, his head shifting minutely to rest against Bingle's shoulder. He carefully placed his hand on Bingle's arm.

Bingle leaned over and kissed Benedict's hair lightly. “Let's go.” He stayed where he was for a long moment, enjoying the warmth and closeness, but then all in one motion, he drew the cloak off. They shivered, adjusting to the cold dawn air.

*****

The first full day of the search. Eliot woke extremely early, right after sunrise with a stunning epiphany. Dressing quickly, he got up to take a look at the waterfall again.

As he looked down at the roiling water, some of the thoughts that he had woken up with slipped from his mind when he had an idea; perhaps he could send a one-way message to the missing men. He went and took two large hardtack biscuits from the provisions, nothing that would be missed, but something that couldn't be overlooked as a stick or a stone or even a note might be.

He held them in his hand and began to weave a ward around them, something that would protect them from the water and float them. Oxygen wasn't necessary. For the sake of time, he dropped anything else in the spell parameters that he might normally have included if it was a person. Just for fun, he made the ward around it cubic and layered on a little extra energy so it would glow for a while. He set the ward to dissipate when picked up by another person.

“All right. Let's see if this works.” Eliot chucked the warded biscuits into the river lightly; they floated and immediately went over the falls. He looked, but he couldn't see where they had gone.

“Bingle. Benedict. I hope you two are okay.” 

Eliot went back to the camp, settling down to breakfast with his notes.

Afterwards, Eliot went around for a look again to think over the problem. Again, the river ended in a cliff, and below the cliff, the spreading fog and rising mist of the falls obscured whatever it was below. There was no sign of either the ocean nor a forested land.

“Okay.” He was on the right track. Things were starting to make sense in a nonsensical way. He was even talking to himself again to get his thoughts in order, but he didn't mind that much. It was one of those problems where the solution seemed to be just on the tip of his prefrontal cortex; he wasn't able to exactly set it out in a way that would work. The whole situation had a tinge of surrealism to it, like dream logic. It had made more sense in his head when he was asleep.

“We know that at the edges of the seas, magic gets amplified and things start getting weird. Fact.” He wrote that down in a quick jagged scrawl, unlike his usual neat writing.

“Fact: Benedict was the first to see the island, the mountain, and off the edge of the cliff. I remember he pointed out the mountain after we landed; I hadn't noticed it yet. And he said he saw the river too, but we should have heard it long before seeing it. Maybe. Probably.

“Fact: Benedict and Bingle went over the edge...no, that's not as useful to the problem. Relevant, but not as to why they're gone.

“Now where's the correlation? What's the trick of this? How does it work?” He stared at his points, going over them again with corrections and additions as he thought about the problem.

Just then, a runner came up from the beach, panting as he made his way over to Eliot. He handed Eliot a note as he caught his breath; Eliot unfolded it. It was from Admiral Lacker. He scanned it briefly, expecting good news, but then frowned. 

He read it again, slower.

“Is this true?”

The man nodded, having caught his breath. It was the cook, Pem, a skinny little guy with a lumpy broken nose who was one of the fastest guys on the ship, and a wildcat in a fight. “Yes, King Eliot. We went around the island, just like you said, but there ain't nothing on the other side.”

“What do you mean? Is it ocean?”

“No, that's the problem. There really ain't nothing there. It's just blank. Like...uh...”

“A void?”

“If that's something black and empty, yeah, that's it. It's almost like no one bothered to draw the rest of the island out, is what the Admiral said.” 

“Well.” Eliot tilted his head. “Was it dangerous?”

“No, not really. The boat sort of got a little close to it and we got to paddling like crazy, but we didn't fall in. One of the guys hit it with his paddle while we was going, but it weren't like the paddle went in. It was kind of...like the nothing was something. We all heard the bump. I don't know how to explain it,” the little man shrugged. “Never seen anything like that before.” 

“Well. I suppose this island's just full of mysteries...” Eliot tapped at his upper lip. “Wait, tell me what the Admiral said again?”

“That I should run you up this message as fast as possible while he took the men out for another look?”

“No, that other thing. About the map.”

“Right. Well, it's like he said, the island looked like no one bothered to draw the rest-”

“Thank you.” Eliot cut him off with a gesture. “That's enough. Go get yourself some breakfast. I'm going to try to fix this mess.”

So here was the missing piece, staring right at him. If he drew the map of the place, he might be able to get them out. Eliot pulled out the piece of paper and found a blank spot. He drew a wiggly line; that was the river. Then the edge of the cliff where the waterfall ran off, and then...the bottom of the cliff. He decided if things were going to be like this, he was going to cheat. He drew a little bracket next to the waterfall and labeled it “2 feet.” Then he drew a pool of water at the base of the waterfall, and then the continuation of the river. He drew a little bank, with a big tree above it, and a campfire. Not much of an artist, he omitted the people and just drew two black dots, and labeled them “Benedict” and “Bingle.”

“Okay. This is stupid, but maybe this will work.” Eliot walked over to the edge of the cliff, and chucked a stone to see how far down the base of the waterfall was now.

The stone disappeared into the concealing mist. He never heard the corresponding splash.

So it wasn't going to be so easy. 

*****

Bingle stood in the river, trousers rolled up above his knees, his dark eyes alert, looking for the shifts in motion that suggested fish. It was harder work than usual, given the gray light that left no clear shadows that indicated movement. Bingle glanced up as something came down the waterfall, a bright speck that tumbled down into the water, before popping out like they had. It eddied around a clump of boulders; Bingle waded over to see what it was.

Two ship's biscuits, in a glowing envelope. He smiled; it was obviously Eliot's doing. He went over and picked it up, the cube that contained them smooth and strange. The biscuits rattled a little inside their shining cage, and he waded out of the water back to the fire, calling for Benedict.

Benedict had helped in the initial search for food, but once they realized there really wasn't anything to forage from, he had retreated to their camp, trying to work out where they were and how close to the ocean they were. He figured if push came to shove, that they'd follow the mountain ridge and head for the coast and meet the ship there. Barring more crazy cliffs or some other unknown danger, they should be able to get out easily.

He was so engrossed with his map corrections that he didn't hear Bingle until Bingle was almost right next to him.

“Oh, sorry. I was just...hey, where'd that come from? King Eliot?”

Bingle smiled, and as he showed Benedict the glowing cube, the cube suddenly lost integrity, disintegrating in Bingle's hands. He caught the two biscuits as neatly as a juggler catching his balls, and handed Benedict one. 

“Well, it looks like Eliot's up there. Perhaps we should try finding a way up, instead of them finding a way down?” Bingle gnawed at the edge of the biscuit, hungry. He stood closer to the fire to dry off and warm up.

“Wouldn't he have used magic already if he could come down? Maybe...something's wrong and he can't.” Benedict tried to break off a piece, but it was too hard, so he nibbled at the edge. “But obviously Eliot's okay, because he's sending us stuff like this.”

“What could be wrong?”

“I dunno. Maybe the island's magic.” In the past, Benedict would have joked about something like this, but after all the sights and wonders they had seen, it was no longer just a hypothetical possibility. “Maybe the cliff is some kind of magical barrier.”

“Eliot would have unwoven it.” They had seen him do things like that before in the past; it never took longer than a few hours. Eliot always said that taking those things apart was easier than putting them together.

“But it could be some kind of magic that he doesn't know. We've seen that before,” Benedict suggested. Bingle looked thoughtful. 

“Yes. Perhaps it's inherent to the island. Come on, we'll walk to the shore. It can't take longer than a few hours at most. We'll signal the ship and they'll come pick us up in the launch.” 

“Good idea.” They set about dismantling their camp; it was easy, just putting out the fire and leaving.

The forest floor was dense with ferns and mosses. When they grew thirsty, there were always little trickles of freshwater streams that could be found here and there; Benedict guessed that they were tributaries from the river. He stayed close to Bingle, who kept his sword drawn. He remembered how Eliot had made Bingle stop doing that unless absolutely necessary back on Outer Island before they left Fillory proper. Back then, Eliot had called it uncouth and said that Bingle was overdoing it. For a moment, Benedict had been convinced that the two were going to fight it out right there on the beach before Bingle shrugged and sheathed his sword, conceding the point. Back then, it made Bingle a lot less scary when Benedict realized that underneath all the scary swordsman facade, Bingle was surprisingly agreeable when approached in the right way, firmly and straightforwardly. Even now he found himself realizing how wrong he had been about Bingle. Despite outward appearances, the swordsman was privately warm, even affectionate at times. Benedict realized it was easier to talk to Bingle than anyone else he knew. It didn't seem that bad to be wrong about something when it was with Bingle. 

He thought about how far he had come. Benedict could barely recognize the self he had left behind, the awkward gangly kid who was afraid of Bingle and afraid of King Eliot, and was sure everything he did was not good enough and a mistake. That self would have blamed himself for going over the cliff. This self knew better; it was just an accident.

“You know, Bingle. I'm sorry we ended up like this, but...I'm glad it's you. That is, I'm glad to be here with you.” Benedict smiled shyly, hopefully over at Bingle. Bingle didn't look back, silent for a long moment, but then he nodded.

“I am too.”

 

In the last year since they had traveled across the seas, Benedict had grown almost four inches. He was taller than Bingle now, and looking to grow even taller though not nearly as tall as Eliot or Quentin. He had filled out with training; he had lost his childish black locks and pale skin and awkward fumbling. The proud sullenness had been abraded away; what was left was poise, confidence.

From the first moment Bingle set eyes on him, he could tell Benedict had potential. Benedict had that innate drive and discipline that drove the greatest students of any craft, only it was poorly focused and mostly wasted by self-doubt and distrust. He had guided Benedict into that focus and shaped him out of his bad habits; it would have otherwise been a criminal waste of talent. But it wasn't something he could even approach Benedict about at first. The boy's defenses were strong and he was wary, like a feral animal shy of human contact. He had said nothing, letting his own presence draw Benedict to him. The strategy had paid off.

They had been on Truthwater when Benedict finally approached him. Bingle had been carrying one handle of a large cane basket filled with pears and apples; Benedict had been carrying the other half, struggling to keep it balanced as they went down the hill from the orchard back to the beach. The sun was setting; they were making the last trip back to the ship with the last of the fruit. Bingle was distracted, hardly thinking of work at all, mostly thinking of Eliot's warm arms around him and the shock of Eliot's lips against his own.

“Bingle? Um. So do you...teach swordfighting?”

Jerked out of his thoughts, Bingle had to think for a moment before he could answer. “Not really, why?”

“I wanted to ask you if you'd teach me, but I didn't think you would. I just couldn't help it...I really want to know,” Benedict flushed beet red and stared down at the ground, his black hair obscuring his eyes and face.

“I say I teach, but I almost never do,” Bingle admitted. “Not seriously. Normally what I say is I'll teach anyone who can hold the sword for half an hour in each hand, full extension. Most people give up long before thirty minutes. And if they manage that first step, I usually beat the desire to learn from me out of them. It's because either they don't have enough discipline past that first step, or if they do, they're power-thirsty and can't be trusted. They know I'm one of the best at what I do, and they want to be one of the best too, so they can crush their enemies. Or me. All the wrong reasons.”

“Have you really ever had a real student? And trained them seriously?”

“Two. The first one I...I loved her, and she died. It was a long time ago. I was only a few years older than you are now. The second one, I...” Bingle stopped. “She died too.”

“I want to know more. Did you kill them?”

“No, of course not, that's foolish. Please stop asking me questions.” Bingle was sharper than he meant, and then Benedict suddenly laughed, a nervous giggle that he couldn't help.

“Sorry. I'm so sorry.” The boy looked horrified. “I didn't mean to say those dumb things. I'm sorry for laughing. And sorry about all the horrible questions. That was stupid. I mean, not your story, but me. I'm pretty stupid.” The nervous giggles ran out, and Benedict just stared at the ground, as if physically unable to meet Bingle's eyes.

Bingle blinked. He stopped and set the basket down, looking at Benedict.

“You can't say that. It's not true.”

“You're wrong, it's true. I mean, I can't lie here on this island. No one can. I'm stupid, and horrible, and no one likes me except King Quentin, and now that he's gone-”

“I like you.” Bingle's hand caught Benedict's shoulder. Startled, the boy looked up at him. Underneath that mop of black hair, he had hazel eyes. Flecks of gold in his eyes caught the crimson light of the setting sun before Benedict quickly looked away.

“I think you could make a great swordsman someday.” Bingle paused, thinking his words through. “Just because you think something is true doesn't mean it is.”

“You don't think I'm stupid or horrible?”

“No. I've never thought that.”

“I thought you hated me.”

Bingle shook his head. “I never have hated you, Benedict. Not now or ever. I apologize for being sharp with you. Both now and in the past. I don't mean to be harsh. I just wish I could guide you into being someone better than you are now.”

Benedict stared at his feet, and then flopped down on the ground with a deep sigh. Dead leaves crushed under the heels of his boots, and he hugged his knees. “Bingle. Do you really think...I'm that messed up? I think I am. I shouldn't have said those dumb things.”

“No. You're not messed up. I think you're young and you've never had someone to guide you. You've never had a true teacher. Perhaps not even a mother or father.”

“No.” Benedict hugged himself. “Not really.”

“I'll train you. You won't even have to pass that first test if you don't want to. That's just a polite way of discouraging the lazy ones, and I can tell you're not lazy. We can start tomorrow morning.”

“I will.” Benedict looked up at him, and the sharp flash of his eyes, fiery and intense sent a thrilling shock through Bingle. “I'll do it. I'll even do that first test. I want to know that I can.”

“Then meet me tomorrow on the forecastle.”

“All right.” Benedict was silent for a while, but he had a look of wonder in his eye, as if he was thinking through possibilities that he could never have dreamed of existing. 

“Bingle? Do you really think I could be a great swordsman?”

“Yes. I think you could be. I want you to be.”

“Why?”

“Because you have an innate talent that's being wasted. Because I think it would make you happier than you are now to have something that gives your life purpose and structure. And because I'd like to be your friend.” Bingle grabbed his end of the basket. “Now let's go.”

They walked back to the beach with the big basket of fruit. Bingle pretended he didn't see Benedict wipe at his tears with his free hand.

 

Lost in his thoughts, Bingle's sword snapped out before him, slicing through a vine that blocked their path.

“How far are we to the sea?” It seemed they had been walking a long time. Bingle thought about how his feet felt; he estimated they had been walking more than half the day though barely any time felt like it passed. Was the island really this big, or was their path they had been taking not a beeline for the sea? With the fog, it was hard to tell where the sun was.

“By my estimate, we should see it in a few minutes.” Benedict was quick to answer; he had been looking at his makeshift map.

“I don't smell it or hear it.”

“We should be...” And then Benedict paused, looking at the map. “I'm a little confused, does that mountain ridge look longer than it was before?”

“I don't think something like that is possible,” Bingle frowned. “But then again, didn't we decide this land was magic? Maybe the world changes around us.”

“That's...weird.” Benedict checked his map. He sketched a rough line. “The sea should be here. And then we walk up the shore back to where everyone is.”

“Perhaps we're just going slower because of all the vegetation.” Bingle knew it for a lie, a gross exaggeration at best, but it helped him from thinking about the possibility that they might be trapped on a magic island for the rest of their foreshortened lives.

“Maybe.” Benedict frowned. “Or maybe we went in the wrong direction?”

“No, I think the island is turning us around.” Bingle sighed. “Benedict, think about it. Have we even heard a bird since we've been out here? Any animals?”

“Um. Actually, now that you mention it...no.” Benedict frowned. “Just the salamander yesterday.”

“Nothing grows here that we can eat. There are no animals. The water is fine, but-”

“It's like it wasn't made to live on,” Benedict shivered.

“No. I don't think it wants us here.” Bingle frowned. 

“We just have to get to the sea. It can't be much farther.”

So they walked, and walked, but hours later as the light of day was seeping away, they were nowhere closer to the sea. Benedict found a nice, dry hollow for them to sleep in, a giant conifer hollowed out by some unknown process, and it was so insulated they didn't need a fire to keep warm. Exhausted from the day that started with standing in a freezing river and ended with walking, and the stress of the problem of the island as well as his own memories, Bingle let Benedict take the lead. Benedict cleaned out some of the dead leaves and detritus from the hollow and lined it with fresh boughs of pine needles broken off from nearby trees, making a makeshift bed like the night before. 

When he was done, Benedict smelled like pine sap and sweat, but Bingle didn't mind. It wasn't a bad smell. They climbed into the hollow; Benedict helped unbuckle Bingle's sword, laying it by his side, close at hand. He drew Bingle close and wrapped the cloak around them. Bingle fell asleep immediately, in the dead silence of the night-time forest. 

*****

Eliot had left a skeleton crew up at the falls with orders to report back if anything had changed. If need be, he would signal them if he wanted them back, but for now they were playing lookout. He went back down to the beach to confer with Admiral Lacker. The Admiral's crew had spent the better part of the day going around the entirety of the island's far side, or what far side there was. Most of it was the mysterious void. 

It was as if Bingle and Benedict had slipped through into some other place, like a parallel dimension that cut off at the falls. Eliot had the men take him around to see the void in the launch. It took an hour or two to row out to it, and he had stared at it for five long minutes before asking them to take him back. There was nothing to see there. Literally nothing, as if reality had been ripped asunder where the other side of the island should be. 

Eliot shook his head. They were just going to have to wait and see if Benedict and Bingle could find their own way out. There was absolutely nothing he could do for them. 

He sat at the prow of the launch while the men rowed back, his long fingers playing over the hilt of his sword. Well, Quentin's sword. He had taken to wearing it after Bingle returned it to him, lacking a Quentin to give it back to. Back then, Bingle had apologized as profusely as he was capable of, and Eliot had waved him off. The sword sat in his cabin for a day, propped up against the bed before he had taken to wearing it. An accessory for being king, he decided. Maybe Quentin did have the right idea. He decided that when he got back to Whitespire, he'd have the dwarves make him an orb too, or maybe more like a flat disk since Fillory didn't seem to be spherical. Or a Klein bottle. Something. 

Eliot wore the sword pretty regularly now. It made him feel like Quentin was with him, and that sentimentality was worse today now that Bingle and Benedict were gone. He remembered making fun of Quentin with Janet when Quentin had been learning how to handle it, and now he was doing the same thing, only with a lot more irony and style. Bingle had taught him some basics; past that, Eliot wasn't particularly interested, though he had built up a little muscle and got some sun and sweating in the process. It had been fun, but it was not the particular kind of sweaty fun with Bingle he preferred.

It made Eliot wonder what Quentin would do about this problem. Probably fly down off the other side of the cliff to look for Benedict and Bingle himself, no questions asked. But Eliot knew better; Quentin was usually wrong about things like that. Something was extremely wrong down there, dangerously wrong.

When he returned to camp at sunset, he conferred with Couble who had been left in charge of the men while he and Admiral Lacker were gone. There was potable water here on the island, fresh and delicious, but no food. The foragers had been sent out and came back empty, having not seen even a single bird. There weren't edible plants. There weren't even insects. That didn't bide well for the lost men, and it was making Eliot a little nervous; they couldn't stay here indefinitely. Sooner or later they'd run out of food, much sooner without a viable island to replenish their stocks. That is, assuming they could find Bingle and Benedict before they died of hunger.

Fortunately they still had a few weeks before that worst case scenario, but Eliot wasn't sure they could afford a few weeks. He checked and double-checked the amount of stores they had with Pem, who on in addition to doing most of the cooking was also the supply officer and knew what they had down to the last grain of salt.

They could afford another few days here, a week at most. But after that, they'd have to veer north and resupply on After Island. And even then they might be pushing it, because it would take a few weeks just to get to After from where they were, assuming they could get there directly without their chief navigator. Any deviation in course might lead to short rations, or the very real possibility of starving.

Eventually, Eliot sat down on the beach and watched the crackling fire in the growing darkness, hearing but not understanding the men murmuring around him.


	3. Chapter 3

Benedict woke up because Bingle was having a nightmare. It wasn't anything Bingle did, because he barely moved at all in his sleep, not even to turn over, but it was the choked sounds he was making, like he was crying.

There was a moment of panic when he realized it was Bingle, and Benedict didn't know whether he should wake him or not. He had always heard it was bad luck to wake someone from a nightmare, so he put his arms around Bingle and held him tightly, until Bingle stopped making horrible noises and his body and breathing grew calm and relaxed again.

It took a while for Benedict's heart to stop racing. He didn't know what time it was; in the musty darkness of the hollow tree, he couldn't see any moon or stars, not that there were any to be seen beyond the obscuring fog. 

Bingle shifted a little; he was awake too. He carefully untangled himself from Benedict's arms to turn away, and Benedict felt a strange sense of disappointment.

“You okay?”

“I'm sorry I woke you,” Bingle replied, his voice sounding thick, choked. Benedict could feel his own throat tighten; he hadn't thought that Bingle had problems like this.

“I'm fine. I was awake already,” Benedict lied. “Was it a bad dream?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it? I heard that can make it less worse. Talking about it.”

“No.” There was a finality to what Bingle said.

“Well...good night then.” Benedict said it like it was no big deal, pretending that it didn't bother him. He closed his eyes and tried to get back to sleep.

He just wanted to help, but here was something else that he couldn't do. Bingle was at least twice his age if not more, and had been adventuring around the world before he was born. Before his parents even met. There was obviously nothing he could do for the swordsman. Not even to be of comfort. That sense of helplessness made him wish for a moment he was Eliot; Eliot seemed to be someone that could really understand Bingle. Important, powerful...a hero. That's what they all were. He could never be so lucky. The best he got was finding this island, and that was turning out to be a horrible mess.

Unthinkingly, Benedict's hand slipped into his secret pocket, one that he had sewn into the lining of his actual pocket with a bit of discarded sailcloth. Inside he felt the key from After Island.

He wasn't anything. He was worse than nothing. He couldn't even come clean about having the key. The longer he had it, the worse it was, lies piled upon lies. He should just hand it over to Eliot, but what could he say? That he had it the whole time? Eliot would be furious. Bingle would be disappointed. They might never speak to him again. He couldn't face them. He had looked for opportunities to somehow secrete the key and then fortuitously 'find' it, but his timing was bad; good opportunities came and went, and somehow he just either couldn't remember to do it or couldn't make it work.

It was his secret, and the worst one he had ever had. He shouldn't have kept it. He wished he could go back and just hand it over to Eliot, when they had walked off the gangplank in the harbor at Whitespire to break the bad news. But back then, he was too afraid of being punished for losing Quentin to remember the key. And then when he had been questioned, he was so stupid and afraid that he just blurted out “No” when asked if he knew where the key was. He didn't even meant to say no.

He was a coward, and a failure. Too upset to even cry, Benedict laid there until dawn, thinking of the key and trying to think of ways to give it back without losing the respect of everyone that he loved.

*****

In the morning Bingle was brusque, unusually cold. They shared the last half of Bingle's hardtack, which Bingle had thought to save. Bingle even made him take the larger part of it. It fed the shame and guilt in Benedict, and Benedict could barely face him. Yesterday he had finished his entirely and still wanted more.

And they had even argued about it. Benedict didn't want to take food from Bingle, especially when he was so stupid yesterday that he didn't think ahead. It was the first time they had fought seriously. Bingle was unyielding on the subject, and Benedict had to acquiesce. Tears stung in his eyes as he choked down the dry biscuit with handfuls of water from a nearby creek, but to his credit, he had a handle on himself. He hadn't cried in front of Bingle over a piece of dry bread. That would have been unforgivable.

Bingle seemed wrapped in his own dark thoughts all morning, and Benedict didn't know what to do. It was like the first time they had met, in the hallway of the ship as Benedict came rushing aboard, barely in time for cast-off. Bingle, a dark presence, cold-eyed and self-absorbed, barely noticing him as they passed each other in the dim hall.

Back then, Benedict thought Bingle hated him. And right now, it didn't seem too far from the truth. He had brought them into this mess...

Benedict tried to shake the thoughts off. Tried to remember those times when Bingle praised him, or encouraged him. But all those seemed hollow victories at best, fond memories of a former life that was too far away to be of any help, even if it was just a few days ago.

And then Benedict thought about the key again, and how Bingle would really hate him if he found out that he'd been hiding it all this time from everyone.

The guilt crushed down on his shoulders even heavier.

Instinctively he brought out his map again, a reflexive talisman against the pain of existence. Here was something he could do right. He stared at the map, and shook his head. It was a mess; why had he even been bothering with it? In the morning light, he could see it for what it was, an exercise in futility. He should have been ashamed to even consider using it. 

“All right.” He said it aloud, and it made Bingle look up briefly, before dismissing him completely.

So Benedict went back to the map, closing out the world. It was safe here, and here he couldn't do anything really wrong that he couldn't fix.

He flipped a few pages until he found a pristine white sheet. With his pencil he began to sketch again, from memory. The beach, the mountain, the river, the waterfall. A little squiggle to indicate where the salamander had been; he'd fill that in later. The long walk through the forest.

Now where they would be going. Lightly he drew in the contour of the coast, from memory. Then a little light shading with the pencil for water. And for good measure, he drew the _Muntjac_ moored off the coast, waiting for them.

Drawing the map gave him a sense of power, a sense of control that he had nowhere else in his life. It was a good feeling, like he could be a hero, important and powerful. He knew it was hollow, but the feeling was good, and it was good enough to get by on.

“Bingle, I think I know the problem from yesterday. So I redrew the map, and this time I'm sure we'll find the coast soon.”

Bingle looked up at him, unseeing, a strange glazed look in his eye. He shook his head, refocusing himself. “All right, let's see what you have.” He came over and set his hand on Benedict's shoulder as he looked at the map.

“See, here.” He showed Bingle the old map and then the new one. “We followed the mountain ridge too closely on this side, so I think it must not have been as straight as we thought...we probably took a longer, crooked path on accident. I think here the island must be longer on the north-south axis than I initially estimated, maybe by several miles. So I think if we head northwest, we should be able find the coast sooner than later. By my estimate, the ocean is probably running parallel east-west to the island. We'll be a little further west than we want to be, but at least we'll be able to navigate better along the coast.”

Bingle studied the map briefly, and nodded. “Very good.” He gave Benedict's shoulder a squeeze. “I knew you'd find the answer.” Bingle met his eyes; his expression was warm again.

Some of the guilt lightened at that, and they got up to go again.

*****

“Your Majesty.” Eliot was sitting on the beach eating breakfast as the Admiral came over, hat in hand. He finished his mouthful of dried beef and hardtack stew; it was a little bit like a crossover between beef stew and oatmeal, unpleasant sounding but surprisingly palatable.

“Yes?”

“Something strange has happened. The _Muntjac_...”

“What about it?”

“Well, we anchored it the other day when we arrived, but... Just now, it's moved almost a mile west of where it was last night. It's fine, nothing's damaged, only... Only it was anchored when it moved, and the men aboard said that they didn't notice anything.”

Eliot thought about that for a moment, and then he smiled. “I don't think you should worry, Admiral. I think this just means that we're getting the boys back.”

Admiral Lacker looked down at him with a skeptical eye, but then he nodded gravely. “I do hope you're right, sir.”

“Have the men continue to refill the water barrels. I think we'll be leaving by the end of the day, if not sooner. Send the launch out down the coast to meet them. Bring some water and food. I think they'd appreciate that.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

*****

Within a few miles they had made it to the sea. Benedict never thought he'd look at the sea with so much fondness and gratitude.

“Good work, Benedict.”

With too much joy for words, Benedict gave a whoop and ran toward the beach. Just as he crossed the high tide line, he saw the launch in the distance, heading toward them. Eliot was sitting at the prow, and he stood up and pointed when he saw them, his cloak fluttering in the wind. He shouted something and the launch veered toward the shore.

“We're here! We're here!” Benedict waved wildly.

Bingle bounded over a tall dune, sliding fast down the crumbling sand, his legs angled so that all the momentum dissipated as he slid to a halt beside Benedict. 

“Well done.” And before Benedict could say anything, Bingle embraced him, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you.” Benedict hugged him back, burying his face in Bingle's shoulder, feeling his tears soak Bingle's shoulder.

Bingle held him fiercely for a long moment before letting go, turning toward the launch. The launch had disembarked in the surf, and Eliot was getting off. He bounded down off the rowboat and into the surf, into Bingle's arms. 

They embraced, waves eddying around their legs, and then without warning, Bingle kissed Eliot and everyone laughed and cheered, even Benedict.

*****

Someone was singing a song. The sound flowed with the movement of the ship, fluttering like wind passing through the sails. Sometimes it sounded strongly, so much so that Benedict could hear every word; other times, it could barely be heard, as if the wind had caught it and taken it away.

“You know what you have to do, right? It's too dangerous otherwise.”

“Yeah. I get it.” Benedict tore two pages out of his notebook, and wadded them up so the ocean wind couldn't tear them away from him. “I'm ready.”

Eliot cupped his hands around Benedict's, and began to murmur something. Suddenly no wind at all stirred the papers.

Bingle passed Benedict the matches, and Benedict struck one. The fire flared up under the dome of Eliot's hands, and the paper caught, burning steadily, ashes crumbling around his fingers.

In the distance, the island lit up like a torch, briefly, before disappearing into the mist as if it had never existed.

“That's that.” Eliot lifted his hands, and whatever spell he had done disappeared. Suddenly Benedict could feel the cold wind on his hands, and it made him shiver.

“We should have named the island after you,” Eliot said thoughtfully. “You created it, after all.”

Benedict blushed. “You really think that?”

“It came from you,” Eliot glanced at him. “You know, Benedict. It's not like I haven't noticed you can do magic.”

Benedict stared at his feet. “I'm not a magician. Not like you.”

“Maybe not like me, or Quentin. Or Janet or even Julia for that matter, but there is something to what you do with your maps.” Eliot shrugged. “You don't have to believe me, but it's there.”

“Whatever the case may be,” Bingle added, “You saved us. And found us a key.”

“I didn't really do anything. Other than make a mess.” Benedict's cheeks felt hot, and he almost wished he still had his hair. Well, any of it. Mato had shaved it off before they had gone back aboard, and the wind stung his bare scalp. It looked awful, but Bingle had assured him that once his skin healed and he got some sun on it, it wouldn't look as ugly as it did now, patches of blotchy red and white.

“It was a good mess.” Eliot smiled. “A mess you should be proud of.” 

The three of them stood silently for a moment, having run out of things to say. Whoever was singing began a new song, one with long mournful notes that swayed and sighed with the motion of the sea.

“Well, off to bed,” Eliot said lightly. He and Bingle exchanged a glance that Benedict couldn't have missed.

Benedict bowed. “Good night Your Majesty. Good night, Bingle.” He left in a hurry, figuring to give Bingle and Eliot some space. As he hurried down the steps, he felt at the key in his pocket, guilt hounding his heels.

“Poor kid.” Eliot watched Benedict head down belowdecks. “I don't think he believed either of us. And I don't think he ever will.”

“No. Perhaps not.” Bingle stretched, arching his back. Eliot watched with an appreciative eye. They headed below as well.

“Did you have fun on your little adventure?” Eliot teased, once they were inside of Eliot's cabin. He sat down and beckoned Bingle over. Bingle sat down with a sigh, and Eliot took his cold hands, chafing them warm. Despite scrubbing, Bingle still had faint streaks of black all along his knuckles and wrists where splatters of pine resin and plant sap had stuck to his skin. “I've seen the way he looks at you sometimes-”

Bingle shook his head fiercely. “No. Nothing happened. Not like that. It won't be like that.”

“No?”

“Never. Not if I can help it.” Bingle's voice was thick with emotion, and he leaned forward and kissed Eliot hard, signaling the end of the conversation.

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspired by watching the water purification system on a 10 gallon tropical aquarium. This story might unintentionally be about math. This series of short stories may eventually connect to The Magician's Map.
> 
> I've had a lot of fun writing about these characters, and I have one more story planned. Thank you for reading.


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